WRONG SONG

And here I am again, responding to a Chuck Wendig challenge. This time it was to set my iPod to shuffle and use the first song to come up as the title of a 500-word story. The song that came up for me was Kielbasa by Tenacious D.

Damn my juvenile tastes in music!

Kielbasa

Kaufmann grunted and doubled over.

It was the kielbasa, had to be. The fucking kielbasa! He knew better than to eat something from that goddamn wop street vender… but he was in a hurry, and it was  convenient. Walked right past the greasy-haired bastard and his steaming vat of sausages every day. Plus, he, Kaufmann, was from solid, tow-headed German stock—Kielbasa was practically his native dish! But now here he was, sweating and crapping his brains out in the executive bathroom. He knew exactly what was waiting for him in the conference room: two partners, his account assistant, Marsha, and four impatient businessmen. Four businessmen who were waiting to hear his presentation to decide if they would grace the firm with their business. Four businessmen who, with the stroke of a pen, would indirectly earn him a cash bonus of $1.2 million dollars. Four businessmen who weren’t going to tolerate Marsha’s excuses and offers of fresh cups of coffee for much longer. Kaufmann wiped his ass for the third time, stood and pulled up his slacks. He made it all the way to the sink before rushing pell-mell back to the stall, barely getting his pants down before another torrent of fury hit the bowl at Mach one.

Magarelli whistled as he cleaned.

He took great pains to make sure his equipment was spotless before he closed down for the night. It might be okay for other venders to sell their hot dogs or pizza or tacos out of disrespectable grease-splattered carts, but he took more pride in his work than that. He father had taught him that if you were going to do a thing, then you should do that thing well. Magarelli had no illusions that he was a great chef, but he served good food at a fair price. And he always had a broad smile for his customers, for Magarelli truly appreciated those who choose his cart other the small herd of other food carts in the plaza. But as much as he enjoyed serving his customers, and he enjoyed observing them more. Something else his father had said: to understand the true nature of a man watch how he treats his subordinates. And Magarelli saw plenty of bad behavior… barked orders to harried underlings, secretaries sent out to fetch lunch in rainstorms, berating obscenities screamed into cellphones. For the worst of these men, Magarelli had a surprise gift. Under the gleaming stainless steel surface of his cart, beneath the basin that held the warming water, Magarelli had a secret cubbyhole. Here he would tuck away a sausage or kielbasa that had gone off. When Magarelli was presented with the opportunity to teach the worst of these men a lesson—like the horrible blond man this afternoon—he took it. Through crafty slight of hand he retrieved the rancid meat, placed it lovingly in a fresh bun, and flashed a wider-than-usual smile.

It was no grand life that he lived, but it was good enough. 

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WRITE FIGHT

Here's something a little different.

I have very occasionally posted my original fiction on this site. Part of that is typical I'm not very good, am I? writer jitters and part of it is the hope that I will someday get my fiction published so I shouldn't jeopardize a sale by posting it here for free.

But I was recently reading Terrible Minds and Chuck Wendig put forth a writing challenge that actually spurred me into action. His challenge was to combine two genres (choices were Dystopian Sci-Fi, Cozy Mysteries, Serial Killer, Lost World, Spy Fiction or Bodice Ripper) into one 1000-word or less story. I'm not entirely sure why, but an idea for a Sci-Fi Bodice Ripper came to mind. I wrote this in about six hours and it comes in exactly at the 1000 word mark, less the title. Enjoy.

Miss Addison Middleton-Fletcher receives a guest.

Miss Addison Middleton-Fletcher lived with her dowager aunt at a volt-farm named “Arcadia.” While Miss Addison thought the hot, cantankerous work of harvesting the wane rays of the sun and converting them to steam better suited to ruffians and mutagenics, she reluctantly agreed that the farm had provide her with a fine enough lifestyle and the freedom to pursue her artistic endeavors.

She was engaged in one such practice when her aunt entered the sitting room.

“Oh, my Addison!” She exclaimed. “What wondrous craft are you undertaking now?”

Miss Addison beamed and held up an unevenly knotted hemp cord for her aunt’s perusal.

“Dottie!” Miss Addison exclaimed, for this was how she addressed her aunt, “do you truly like it? I had some trouble some of the knots, but I find it is still pleasing to the eye, is it not?”

“Well enough, little duck,” Dottie replied. “And it will make a fine welcoming gift when that handsome Mr. Deeringhouse next comes calling!”

A shadow flickered across Miss Addison’s face. How long had it been since Arcadia had last hosted Mr. Deeringhouse? A month? Two?

Dottie’s brow knitted as she realized how she had misspoke. “My dear, my dear,” she cooed, “I am quite certain that Mr. Deeringhouse has found himself away from our home due to circumstances of business! It is his travels in the North that keep him away, for that is such a wild and unpredictable land! I hear tell it is peopled with the absolute worst sort! Sand herders and soot merchants!  Nihilists and cannibals! Why, I should not be surprised to hear that Mr. Deeringhouse risks his very life with every journey!”

At this Miss Addison put a fist to her mouth, tears dribbling down her cheeks at the thought of her beloved in jeopardy. Dottie produced a stained lace handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed at Miss Addison’s face.

“Now, now, my sweet,” she soothed. “Stop these tears. Look, you’re smearing your concealer.”

Dottie lifted the kerchief to show a greasy white smudge. Her ministrations had revealed a raw, blistered patch under the left eye, heretofore hidden with an artful application of make-up.

Miss Addison leapt up and fled the sitting room, stopping only once she was ensconced in the sanctuary of her dressing room. She collected herself quickly and surveyed the landscape of her face.

At nineteen she was still of the age and appearance that men fancied. True, outside of the city limits where she and her aunt dwelled was rife with radiation that aged the skin and turned fertile young girls into barren spinsters in a brace of decades… but she was not there yet. Not yet!

Miss Addison knew that her remote location precluded the possibility of her catching the eye of a Magistrate or Nobleman who would select her to be their reproduction-mate. However, the wealth of her Aunt allowed Miss Addison admission to some of the grander soirees in the City. It was at one such function that she first met Mr. Deeringhouse.

He was handsome and dashing; his skin baring hardly any boils or scars. She begged an associate of Dottie’s to introduce her at once.

And once so introduced, she was stricken. As was, it seemed, Mr. Deeringhouse. He called upon Miss Addison every single day for a week. They spoke cordially enough, but his eyes stared into her with such intensity that she had to look away.

It was love.

At the end of the week, with great regret, Mr. Deeringhouse had to depart for travels in the north.

She had not heard from him since then.

Ah, but the hopeful heart is light! She fantasized of the day that they would enter the High Chamber as rep-mates, he carrying a scarlet canister marked with a black triangle that contained the sum total of his genetic code; and she doing likewise, her canister marked with a circle. Their genomes would be combined to produce a child, strong and fine featured.

She was wrenched from her reverie by the hissing clunk that heralded the approach of their automaton servant, Higgs.

“Excuse:the:interruption:miss,” Higgs intoned in its hollow voice, “Your:aunt:wishes:me:to:inform:you:that:there:is:a:gentleman:
caller:for:you:in:the:east:parlor.”

Happy day! Miss Addison’s heart fluttered and took flight as she hurried with all due haste to the east end of the residence.

There she encountered not Mr. Archer Deeringhouse, but a different man altogether. He was dressed in the dull silver coveralls of an outside laborer, his face obscured by a scarf wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose. Over his eyes were black goggles with only a thin horizontal sliver for sight. He wore heavy leather gloves and carried a well-worn satchel. He was covered in yellow dust that cascaded off him, forming small mounds around his heavy boots. Dottie would be most displeased.

“Addison Fletcher?” the man growled in a thick voice.

Miss Addison’s nose wrinkled at his abruptness. “Miss Middleton-Fletcher, if you please,”  she said curtly. “And you are…?”

The man put down his satchel and pulled the goggles up and away from his face, revealing ghostly white skin beneath. He blinked rapidly, then wiped some grit out of one eye. Kneeling down he opened the satchel and rummage inside. Without raising his head, he said, “He right… you a pretty thing.”

“Whom d-do you mean?” Miss Addison stammered. “Do you mean… are you an… associate of Mr. Deeringhouse?”

The man spoke. “Mr. Deeringhouse… he dead. But he wants you have this thing.” Without further explanation, he rose and strode out, leaving only a haze of yellow dust.

Only when she heard the the airlock re-seal did her gaze fall to the floor. There, on the threadbare carpet stood a faded red canister marked with a black triangle.

She fell to her knees and cradled the container, tears streaming down her ruined cheeks.  “Oh, Archer!” She sobbed. “You do love me, you do!”

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#312 In which our hero celebrates a birthday with a roomful of sweaty naked men. Part 2.

Part 1 here.

We filed inside the building and were immediately ushered up a staircase. At the top we took a sharp turn to a short hallway that was lined on one side with towels and sheets.

Now, when I read the emails about taking “2 towels and 1 sheet” I had assumed they would be big, fluffy white towels… the kind you’d expect to find at a spa. These were not those sort of towels. These towels which, to be fair, where white-ish, mostly, had clearly been worn and washed hundreds of times. They were thin and threadbare, ragged at the edges. And the sheet… I hadn’t really given it much thought, but I think in the back of my head I expected them to really be some soft of robe or toga thing… but no; these were old bed sheets in a variety of colors that were also fraying at the edges. I suppressed a laugh and grabbed my allotment of towels and sheet.

In fact, for the first hour or so, I was very careful about maintaining a poker face. There was an almost palpable vibe that this was an old-school sort of place run by old-school sorts of people… the kind of people who settle their issues with brass knuckles and lead pipes in dark alleys. I was honestly concerned that if I screwed something up (like grabbing two sheets and one towel, say) that I would be “escorted” out of the building. I was clearly an outsider being given a glimpse inside of something old and cherished. I really didn’t feel any safety in numbers even though there were a lot more of us than there were of the people who worked there.

After grabbing our towels and sheets we moved into a sort of locker room to change. This was a large single room lined with traditional lockers. In the center of the room were about 20 cots. But they were most like narrow beds covered in a white sheet, like what you would lay on for a massage. At first I thought these were the cots for the before mentioned optional message, but they were all pushed together, with no room to get between them. A masseuse wouldn’t even be able to reach you if you were on any of the cots except the ones on the edge. It was very confusing. Also, the lights in this room were turned low... at the time I assumed it was to give us a measure of privacy.

We all stripped down and put on our towels. There was a little dining room outside the locker room where we deposited the food and booze we had all brought. We awkwardly mingled there for a moment, waiting to be told what to do next. Those in the know directed us down a different stairway to the steam room.

I have to stress again that this place wasn’t a spa or gym or even the YMCA. You could have mistaken any of the rooms as the living room of a rundown apartment building.

So we go down the stairway into the steam room area in the basement of the building. Walking through the doorway was exactly like entering the set of “Hostel” or “Saw.”

It was a dank, humid cement room, with three exposed showers jutting out of the wall directly opposite the entrance way; a cement slab to the right as you entered (I suspect this is where the “platza” occurred) behind which was a small, shallow pool; and to the left as you entered was a rather imposing wooden door labeled, “STEAM ROOM.”

There was also a single urinal set into the wall near the door. Apparently, if you needed to pee you only had to walk out of the steam room (naked), take a leak, then return. No need to be hassled with the bother of putting on your towel again.

I was still carrying my second towel and sheet, so I stashed them in a corner and went into the steam room.

It was a pretty big room, bigger than I expected. Probably about 25x20 feet. Set into one wall was an enormous furnace with two huge cast iron doors. Opposite that was five wooden risers. And, of course, lots of sweaty naked men.

The place was already crowded by the time I got in, and the first three risers were just about full. No problem, I thought. I’ll just grab a seat up on the top, where it’s empty.

Big mistake.

It’s funny how quickly you forget simple things like “heat rises” when there’s no real practical application. But in a sealed steam room it became practical in a big fucking hurry.

It was definitely hot when I entered, but by the time I got to the top row, I felt like I was on the surface of the sun. “Holy shit,” I remarked, and a couple guys around me laughed. I retreated to the bottom row. “Yeah,” a guy said, “You want to work your way up to the top.”

It was immediately apparent which of us had been to a schvitz before, and those who hadn’t. The schvitz virgins like me wrapped our towels around our waists and sat on them that way (remembering that the first rule was “You MUST sit on a towel in the steam room!”). But those who had been there before? They walked around with their balls swinging freely. Guys stood up having conversations, walked around the room, went out to cool off for a second, then returned… all naked as could be. I mean, it’s human nature to look toward a door when it opens, and I did so at least a dozen times and was greeted by a great view of some guy’s junk each and every time.

But the longer I was in the steam room, the more I started to enjoy it (the heat, not looking at other men's junk). An attendant would chuck a bucket of water into the furnace every once an awhile, keeping the temperature up. I sat and chatted with some of the guys I had hoped to get to know better, and it was very pleasant.

After a bit I moved up a couple of feet, and the heat was fairly intense. I took a cue from the others around me and moved out of the steam room (towel firmly around my waist) to the shower room. There were a couple of old guys hanging around the pool, so I approached them. “You guys look like you know what’s going on,” I said. “This pool… should I wade in or just jump all the way in?” They smiled and me and said that they couldn’t jump in since they were both cardiac patients… but I was free to do so if I wanted.

What the hell.

I jumped in and ducked my head under the water (it was only about four feet deep). The water was ice cold. I immediately got back out and… it felt great. I had been so hot, and the shock of the water was so cold that now I felt almost equalized. It was amazingly refreshing. Now, I wouldn’t want to swim a couple laps or anything, that would have sunk my core temperature to an uncomfortable level.

I returned to the steam room and hung out some more, chatting, laughing. I jumped into the pool twice more and eventually made my way to the top row. It was intense, but not unbearable like it had been when I first arrived.

At some point I toweled off and went back to the dining room to see what was happening up there. There was a great selection of cheeses and cured meats, plus these amazing pickled vegetables provided by the schvitz. I drank some bourbon (The Scientist would have been proud), eat and chatted with some of the guys. Remember that we’re all still sitting around in nothing but towels.

One of the organizers came into the room and says, “Hey guys, if you’re done with the steam, it’s good etiquette to change to your sheets.” This struck me as incredibly funny. Seriously guys, let’s not look like jerks here. If you’re gotten your fill of sitting around naked with other sweaty men then get rid of those damp towels and put something decent on… like the raggedy old bed sheets you picked up on the way in.

So I dumped my towel and went to fetch my sheet, which I had stashed in the locker room. When I went to get it I discovered the reason for all the cots and the low lighting… there were about a dozen guys in the locker room taking a nap! I had heard something about sleeping after the steam, but didn’t realize that there was a designated nap room. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of the nap and it was really appealing… but honestly, I didn’t want to chance missing out on any of the weirdness of the evening by snoozing. That said, a nap would have really felt great after the relaxing heat of the steam room.

Once everyone was done with the steaming themselves, the room filled up with guys in sheets. When the concept of sitting around in sheets was first introduced, I really thought it was going to be like wearing a toga. I thought someone would instruct us in the proper way of wrapping the sheet; perhaps some ancient eastern European method that has been lost to the general population… but no. I just wrapped it around my waist, just like I did the towel. And so did everyone else.

We all sat at a long table and noshed on the meats, cheese and vegetables for a while. The staff passed out glasses—which is to say, cheap plastic glasses like the ones you serve juice in to your kids—and we started drinking red wine. We also did several shots of vodka, which is a tradition of the schvitz, I’m told.

Keep in mind that we’re all naked from the waist up while this is happening. I was surprised at how quickly it became not weird. There’s a room full of guys, and we’re ALL wearing sheets, so very quickly it was no longer a thing.

Finally, a waiter came around to take our orders. But that’s overstating it, really. The schvitz is a package deal that includes a salad and steak. No appetizers (other than those you bring yourself), no side dishes. So the guy didn't so much take our order as much as stop at each of use individually and ask, “How doya want your steak cooked?”

Plates and silverware were placed in front of us, and they were of the same ilk as the wine glasses—cheap plastic plates, one paper napkin and a fork and knife. It was incredibly low-rent, but also, in some odd fashion, really added to the experience.

And I mean that. There was something about the utter lack of pretension—cheap towels, used bed sheets, plastic plates—that made you focus on the real reason for the evening. It wasn’t to be impressed by sparkling clean facilities or fine crystal stemware or decadent gourmet food… the real reason that we had all gathered together was to share stories, make fun of each other, laugh, and enjoy an evening with a bunch of like-minded friends.

It was the quintessential male experience that you just don’t see in this day and age.

We ended the evening with big-ass steaks (where they great steaks? No, not so much. But they were BIG), more drinking, more conversation and finally cigars. I’m not a smoker by any stretch, but I indulged in a cigar. If I had it to do all over again I think I’d skip the cigar part; my mouth tasted like shit for most of the next day.

Oh, and there was a cake. Half for my birthday, half to celebrate the retirement of another one of the other guys.

The evening finally wound to a close. We got dressed and headed back out to our cars. The entire ride back we all talked about how awesome the evening had been, and how we’d all like to do it again. There are already semi-concrete plans to repeat the night next year.

So that’s how I spent my 43rd birthday. Definitely the oddest birthday celebration I’ve ever had. And, in many ways, the best.

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#312 In which our hero celebrates a birthday with a roomful of sweaty naked men. Part 1.

Last Saturday was my birthday. I turned 43.

There’s undoubtedly some commentary to be made on the fact that I’m probably at the halfway point of my life, and have maybe even been there for a couple years. But instead of that, I’m going to write about my weird-ass birthday celebration.

Couple of months ago, I guy I know organized a “Schvitz.” Now, if you’re not familiar with the term, you’re not alone. I had no idea what it was either. It was described to me thusly:

“The schvitz is an old-school styled steam - think something like the Rat Pack of guys in towels in a steam room. And then we’ll eat steaks.”

I was kinda “meh” on the idea. It sounded okay, I guess, but it’s not like I heard about it and was like, “OMG! I NEED to do that!” Honestly, it sounded a little weird.

But, I started to see the list of other people who had committed to coming and it started to get a lot more attractive. It was an interesting group of guys who I already knew because we shared a hobby… but I had never sat down for hours and really talked to any of them. Being that I liked and respected all of them (well, most of them) quite a bit, I started to think that it would be a great opportunity to get to know them better. And there would be steak and wine after the steam, so that couldn’t be bad.

Plus, I found out, when they agreed on a date it happened to be my birthday. Being that I didn’t have any other plans, I figured what the hell.

So I signed up and paid my money… I think it was $65. I was told what to bring--everyone was responsible for bringing either some sort of meat & cheese tray or wine. My one good friend and I discussed how we were both a little hesitant about this thing; it sounded like it would be fun, but on the other hand, it could be really awkward and uncomfortable. We both came to the conclusion that it was too weird to miss.

Then the emails started coming in.

The first went out to everyone informing us that if we wanted a massage while we were there, they were available for $60/hour. Now, my mind immediately went to the “happy ending” sort of massage, but the email explained that the masseuse was a.) a man, and b.) a professional masseuse who also worked on guys from the Cleveland Browns. Sounded cool, but I wasn’t really interested in shelling out another 60 bucks. But, the email went on to say that I could also get a “platza” for only $20. Much like the “schvitz” I had no idea what the hell a “platza” was. But it was explained as a “scrub down where they use a seaweed mop and horsehair brush with soaps that mimic the traditional oak leaves.” And the guy helpfully included this video:

Ignoring for a moment that the video appears to be shot in a CAVE, what I saw really didn’t appeal. Some brawny guy beating me with a mop for half an hour? I mean, maybe after getting all gross and sweaty a scrub down like this would feel good… maybe? More than anything, it looked like going through a car wash.

I passed on the platza.

More emails came with explanations of what you were to do when you get there. One instruction that jumped out at me was that when you first got there, you were to take “2 towels and 1 sheet.” Now, the towels, I understood… but a sheet?

It was explained to me that when it was time for dinner, you’d dry off and wrap the sheet around yourself. See, I naively thought that once the steam was done, we could get dressed again. Oh no. The idea was to remain naked for the entire experience.

Another email came with details on how to get to the place, including these directions:

“There is gonna be a sign that says "DEAD END" you ARE gonna go down that street. About 200 feet after the sign you're gonna see the gate, go past the gate and park in the back. There should be an attendant there telling you where to park ( he'll come out of his car). You can pay him now or when you come out, your choice.”

So, two days before the event we get the final email. It starts out like this:

Gents- It is time.
It is time to Relax & Sweat.
It is time to Laugh and make Friends.
It is time to Drink Beers, Wine and Vodka.
It is time to Smoke Cigars/ Pipes/ Cigarettes in an enclosed place.
It is time to Eat Steak so thick that it's cut with a bandsaw.
It is time to Dine in a sheet.
IT IS TIME TO SCHVITZ!!!!!!
The Schvitz has been called, the Guy with the Gun is letting us in and they are expecting 43 of us on Sat Dec 10 from 5-9pm. As of this email we are not accepting anymore guys.

My first thought is that this guy is WAY too excited about this thing. My second thought is “guy with the gun”? That’s just an expression… right?

The day comes and we meet and all pile into three cars and drive over to the place.

It is in a terrible area of town. As instructed, we drove down a dead end street, turned into a gravel alley and parked behind what looked for all the world to be an abandoned building. The windows were boarded over and it was covered with dead ivy. Here’s a photo:

One of the guys in the car remarked, “Y’know, if I was being brought here by myself, I’m not sure I’d be going home.”

 We paid the guy sitting in the parking lot watching over the cars. And I found out that “the guy with the gun” wasn’t a euphemism.

We walked through the dirt parking lot and entered an unmarked door in the back.

Continued in part 2.

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